Desperation
by sunne
Summary: Voldemort has long since won the war. While the Order has continued their fight, they are losing. They reach out for help. Written for Round 8 of the QLFC.


**Author's Note:** This is written for Round 8 of the QLFC. I am the Seeker for the Falmouth Falcons. My prompt is: Voldemort!wins AU. What (if anything) does the Order of the Phoenix do in response to Voldemort rising to power?

Desperation

General Alexander Bryce considered himself a military man. He had an innate feel for the inner workings of war and an appreciation for the sacrifices made. General Bryce had joined the U.S. Army right out of high school to fight in the Vietnam war. Climbing the ranks quickly, he found himself sliding into the role of General with ease. Strategy was his strength, along with a knack for predicting the movements and operations of the enemy. He, too, considered himself a reasonable man, one with the initiative and tenacity to get done what others considered impossible.

Sitting in his office with the man across from him—messy, black hair and a hardened expression that made the man look years older than he was—Bryce was sure one of his Officers was playing a joke on him. Officer Yates always had a reputation for ridiculous pranks, and while Bryce appreciated good humor, timing was everything. Bryce had lived through decades of military endeavors from the Vietnam War through the continuing confrontations in the Middle East. He had woken up that morning with the distinct feeling that today was different. The world was changing, and Bryce could feel it in his bones—it put him on edge. If this was an elaborately planned joke, Bryce would hang Yates up to dry and fester.

However, Bryce couldn't help but look at the man and see a warrior who had been fighting for too long. It was the pained expression on the man's face, the coldness in his eyes that reminded Bryce of the faces of his brothers that had faced and survived war, only to be thrust back into it. This man sitting across from Bryce knew war.

"So, Mr. Potter, you're telling me magic is real?" Bryce leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

The man nodded. "Yes, Sir. If you need a demonstration, I can provide that."

"Show me."

Potter flicked his wrist, a long stick dropping into his fingers. He glanced to his right where Bryce kept a bookshelf. " _Accio_ book." The book pulled itself from the shelf and floated across the room and into Potter's hand.

Bryce frowned, his brain telling him that it was a trick, an elaborate set up. He pushed those thoughts down, reminding himself of his observations of the man, the war-torn look in Potter's eyes.

"It can be difficult for Muggles to accept," Potter said, resting his hands in his lap but keeping the stick in his hand.

"Muggles?"

"Non-magical people."

Unfolding his arms, Bryce leaned his forearms on his desk. "And you're here asking for our help? The US Military?"

"Yes."

"You've not spoken with the President?" It was uncharacteristic for such a request to not go through the highest in office. Bryce narrowed his eyes, taking note of the tension in the other man's body.

"I was unable to meet with him." Potter flicked his glance at the door and then the window.

"The President is a busy man." Bryce recognized the highly-coiled and tense posture of the other man. It was the posture of someone accustomed to being hunted. "What makes you think we would be of help to you?" He glanced at his computer screen where his day's schedule was displayed before returning his attention to the black-haired man. "I can only assume that your enemies also use magic."

The other man sighed and shifted in his seat. "That kind of thinking—the sort that puts muggle technology and magic at odds with each other—is counter productive. Magic, General Bryce, is just a tool. It is neither good nor evil, and it is not all powerful. Magic has its limits."

"You're looking to extend those limits, then?" The General could see where the conversation was headed. The United States Military was a powerhouse—anyone in the world knew that.

Potter nodded.

"How would the assistance of the US Military win your war?"

"With manpower, weapons, and supplies. We have been fighting a war for ten years, a war that we are losing." Potter leaned forward, the collar of his shirt shifting just enough for General Bryce to see a scar circling halfway around the man's neck. "Please, all we ask is for three thousand soldiers, access to food, and long-range weapons."

"And what would the United States gain from aiding you in your cause?"

The other man faltered, the expression on his face falling. "Gain?"

Bryce sympathized with the man—he really did. He understood the strain the perils of war placed upon a person. However, Bryce's responsibility was to the United States. "I'm not sure your conflict is within American interests," Bryce said, glancing at his computer screen. He had another meeting in ten minutes and thousands of troops in the Middle East to think about. "We are in the middle of a conflict—"

Potter shot to his feet. "In the Middle East, yes?" He leaned his hands against Bryce's desk, his green eyes wild with quick anger. "Who do you think is behind that? Bin Laden? Sadam Hussein?" The black-haired man laughed, running a hand through his messy hair. "They are both just pawns strung up by Tom Riddle. His desire for power has spread across the world. Have you seen the state of the United Kingdom over the past ten years?" The collapse of the British government had been one of the media's favorite talking points over the past few years.

While the general felt for the other man, outbursts such as he was demonstrating were uncalled for. He was not helping his cause. A notification popped up on Bryce's computer screen. He would be late for his meeting if he didn't leave soon. He shook his head. "Even great societies fail. Look at Rome. They were one of the most advanced civilizations of the ancient world, and even they eventually fell."

"Tell me something." Potter pointed a finger at Bryce. "Is avoiding the fall of your country, the death and torture of your citizens, within American interests?"

Anger swelled in Bryce's chest and he felt heat rise up his face. "The United States is one of the greatest powers in the world. To even think of its fall is….is…"

"Not possible." Potter smiled. "We thought it not possible to lose." He laughed, the sound forced and harsh. "I was supposed to be the Chosen One, the one who was prophesied to kill him. Neither shall live while the other survives," he said, speaking as if reciting a poem. "I failed, and Tom has gone from country to country, taking over governments and murdering people. Do you think he has just overlooked your country?"

"The American Military is not the….the…" He waved his hand, searching for words.

"The Order of the Phoenix."

Bryce nodded and stood. "Yes, the Order of the Phoenix." He tugged on his shirt sleeves, smoothing out a few wrinkles. "Our military is formidable and the resolve of our people is strong. I find it hard to believe that we would be brought to our knees by this Tom Riddle."

"You're not hearing me," Potter said. "You don't understand what is coming."

"I appreciate the warning. I'll be sure to pass it on to the President." Bryce reached for the jacket he had laid across his chair. "I am late to a meeting. It's been a pleasure, Mr. Potter." He stuck out his hand.

Bryce watched as the other man raised his wand, green eyes narrowed with determination. Potter's hand was steady, but his eyes spoke of desperation. "I don't want to do this, but I will."

There had been several times in Bryce's life where he had been face to face with the wrong end of a gun. He had lived through war and survived to tell the stories to his grandchildren. Standing here, now, with a wand pointed at his chest, he figured he should feel the same adrenaline-charged rush of focus. Instead, he felt irritated and annoyed. It was a stick, a piece of polished wood. Bryce imagined how easy it would be to reach forward, take the wand, and snap it.

"General Bryce, The Order set up this meeting with one purpose." Potter stepped around the side of the desk. "We need your help, and we're prepared to go to lengths to get what we need." He met the General's eyes. "I can see what you're thinking. You think this is just a piece of wood, and that it poses no threat. You have no idea what magic can do."

Bryce scoffed but took a step back. "Do you realize the consequences for holding an upper level General at….at..." His eyes remained on the wand.

"Wand point," Potter said. "The term you're looking for is wand point. Sir, I will get what I came for."

Sliding his gaze to the far right, Bryce judged the distance between where he stood and his panic button. He returned his attention to the man and calculated the time it would take for him to attack. The desk, a solid piece of mahogany, would act as his shield. There would be just enough time. His heart began to race and he stared at Potter. Potter smiled slowly at him, his wand not wavering. On the count of three, he decided.

One. He shifted to his right foot.

Two. The fingers of his right hand stretched out towards the button.

And three! Bryce lunged.

" _Imperio_."

In the end, Potter was quicker. If Bryce still had control of his freewill, he would have fully expressed his indignation and displeasure. Instead, he smiled slowly at the man standing over him. A voice, smooth and fluid like water, spoke in his head, making suggestions. Bryce stood up and sat down at his desk. His meeting would have to wait—he had a very urgent phone call to make to the President.


End file.
